Ruthless (Cath Staincliffe)

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘In his car,’ Mrs Kavanagh said. ‘The children, they dreaded his visits.’

  ‘Was he violent?’ said Janet.

  ‘No,’ she said hastily, ‘no, never that. Maudlin, weepy, or sometimes the opposite, laughing when things weren’t funny. It was too much for them to handle. He tried to stop a few times, the drinking, but it never lasted. You know, I thought he was probably dead already, his health … but you said a fire?’

  ‘Mrs Kavanagh, I’m sorry to tell you he didn’t die of natural causes. We’re treating his death as suspicious.’

  ‘Suspicious?’ Frown lines deepened on her forehead.

  ‘We’ve launched a murder investigation,’ Janet said. ‘The man who we believe to be your husband was shot and killed and left in the building, which was then set on fire.’

  ‘Shot?’ she said, her brow creasing.

  ‘Yes,’ Janet said.

  ‘Why on earth would anyone shoot Richard? He’d never hurt a fly.’ She looked bewildered.

  ‘To your knowledge, was Mr Kavanagh ever involved in any illegal activity?’ said Janet.

  ‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have a clue, anything like that, people would run rings round him. He was – he could be gullible, trusted too easily.’

  ‘He lied about his drinking?’ Rachel knew how it went, alkies, addicts – lying and secrecy came with the territory.

  ‘Badly,’ Judith Kavanagh admitted. ‘He was a painter.’

  ‘Decorator?’ Rachel said.

  ‘No.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘Artist, oils. Barely anyone makes a living at that so we had the shop: art supplies, photocopier back in the days before everyone had a printer at home. We made enough to live on, I worked as a receptionist for an optician. Then,’ she sighed, ‘he’d be off to the pub at lunchtime, or after work, or he’d have a bottle under the counter. He started losing control, messing up the orders.’

  ‘You never divorced?’ Janet said.

  ‘It didn’t seem important and then, as time went on, I wouldn’t have known where to find him. We moved here later that year, ’99. My dad had died and left me some money and I put it into this place.’

  ‘And the children, how many?’ Janet said.

  ‘Two, Karen and Barry. Both flown the nest – though they’ve not gone far.’

  ‘And to your knowledge neither of them has resumed contact with your husband?’

  ‘No, they’d have said. It’s not like I’d forbidden it or anything. They …’ she paused, ‘… they were quite bitter about it, and they couldn’t understand why he chose drink over them.’

  That’s how it works, Rachel thought, an image of her dad swaying down the street and Rachel, hating him and embarrassed, darting into an alley so he’d not see her.

  ‘Could you tell us who his dentist was when living in Bury?’ said Janet.

  She nodded. ‘Henry Sharples. On Fortins Rd.’

  ‘The dental records will help establish beyond any doubt that this person is Richard,’ Janet explained.

  ‘Poor man,’ she said, shaking her head slowly.

  ‘Mrs Kavanagh, do you have a photograph of your husband?’

  ‘Somewhere,’ she said, ‘in the basement.’

  ‘Please could you have a look?’ said Janet.

  ‘It’ll be years old.’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine.’

  She left them and Rachel heard the sounds of the door to the basement opening, the snick of a light switch and footsteps going downstairs.

  They didn’t talk while she was out of the room. Rachel checked her messages and Janet wrote in her notebook. Outside seagulls shrieked. Rachel thought maybe her family had holidayed in Rhyl, back when holidays were possible. They’d always stayed in caravans, not B&Bs.

  Mrs Kavanagh came back. Her hand shook as she handed two photographs to Janet. ‘He always had his hair long,’ she said, a catch in her voice. ‘He was a mess when he got into drinking but he was harmless. Who on earth would do that?’ She froze. ‘He was shot first?’

  ‘Yes,’ Janet said. ‘There’s been a post-mortem, it’s standard with any sudden or suspicious death.’ Her voice was level, quiet, slow, reassuring. ‘And from that we could tell the shots were fired before the fire was started. It would have been quick,’ she said.

  Mrs Kavanagh nodded, her lip trembling. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Can you write down contact details for your son and daughter – we’ll need to talk to them as well,’ Janet said.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Mrs Kavanagh reached out for a small address book on the side table and copied out the details. She handed the note to Janet.

  ‘And are there any relatives on your husband’s side who might have kept in contact with him?’ Janet asked.

  Judith Kavanagh shook her head. ‘His parents are dead. He had a sister, she emigrated, met a South African, a Methodist preacher. As you can imagine, Richard’s drinking went down like a lead balloon. They didn’t even exchange Christmas cards once the parents had died. What will happen now?’

  ‘Our inquiries will continue,’ Janet said. ‘We will confirm identity and let you know. While the investigation goes on, Richard’s body will be held by the coroner. The release of the body will be at their discretion. You appear to be next of kin so the body will be released to you when the time comes.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her face flickered with emotion, tears stood in her eyes but she sniffed loudly, rubbing her forearm with her other hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Kavanagh,’ said Janet. ‘It is a very difficult situation. Is there anyone you’d like me to contact, anyone you’d like to be with?’

  ‘No, thank you, I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Thank you for your help. Please can we take a short statement from you now, confirming what you’ve told us?’

  The woman nodded and cleared her throat and they began.

  Karen and Barry Kavanagh still lived in Rhyl. Rachel and Janet spoke to Karen at the restaurant where she was a chef and to Barry at the local high school. Both confirmed the information that Mrs Kavanagh had given them. While each of his children were shocked to learn of Kavanagh’s death, neither of them seemed particularly upset. And why should they, Rachel thought, they’d not seen him for years, only remembered the chaos he’d caused.

  She snatched the chance to smoke as they walked to the front, in search of potted shrimp. The place was more or less deserted, just a few tourists wearing raincoats and carrying brollies, but in the amusement park most of the machines stood idle, there was no queue at the ice cream van. The tide was up and the grey water empty save for some seagulls.

  They stopped at a café for a cuppa and a bite to eat.

  ‘Staying long?’ the bloke in the café asked.

  ‘No, just passing through,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s quiet.’

  ‘The weather, and money, people watching their pennies. First thing to go, holidays and that, luxuries. Sometimes I wish they’d gag the weather forecaster. You hear it’s going to be unsettled again, you’ll not be eager to come down here.’

  ‘He kept the ring,’ Janet said, on their way back to the car.

  ‘Probably couldn’t get it off,’ said Rachel.

  ‘What?’

  ‘His fingers got swollen, his knuckles. The only reason an alkie down on his luck wouldn’t part with a piece of gold like that is because he’d have to cut his finger off to get at it.’

  ‘You are such a cynic,’ Janet said.

  ‘A realist.’

  ‘He could have had the ring cut off.’

  ‘Not easy if it’s really tight. And most jewellers won’t let someone like that over the threshold.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong,’ Janet said. ‘I think he kept it because it was all he had left to remind him of what he’d had, what he’d lost.’

  Rachel stared at her. ‘Cue the violins.’

  ‘Harsh,’ Janet said. ‘So where has he been since Bury in 1999? What was he doing on Manorclough?’

&nb
sp; ‘Rick!’ Rachel exclaimed, making Janet jump out of her skin.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Hang on.’ Rachel looked back through her notes, eyes running across the pages, flipping paper over then back. ‘Not written it down.’

  Janet tutted. ‘Naughty.’ Write it down, a mantra the boss drummed into them.

  ‘Can we stop on Manorclough?’ Rachel said. ‘Something the woman at the newsagent’s said. A tramp they gave handouts to, called Rick.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Janet smiled. ‘Let’s go see, shall we?’

  7

  The misty rain at the coast had turned to a steady downpour back in the Pennines. The shop was busy, a bunch of rowdy kids in uniform, buying sweets and fizzy drinks. The air peppered with ‘fucks’ and ‘knobs’ and ‘slags’.

  ‘Ten Lambert & Butler,’ one of the kids said. Liam Kelly’s eyes flicked towards Rachel.

  ‘Proof of age?’ he said.

  ‘Come on, Liam,’ the lad complained.

  Liam Kelly simply shook his head. The lad wheeled round, arms raised in exasperation.

  ‘One twenty-nine,’ Liam Kelly said, pointing to the snacks.

  ‘I need some fags.’

  ‘Against the law, I could be prosecuted,’ Liam Kelly said. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, DC Bailey?’ The kids looked at Rachel and Janet. The hubbub quietened.

  ‘That’s right,’ Rachel said. ‘And this is DC Scott.’

  ‘Aah!’ the lad who’d been refused service groaned. ‘The dibble.’

  ‘Cagney and Lacey,’ someone called out.

  ‘Is it about the murder?’ said a girl with teeth covered in braces and a narrow face like a shrew’s. ‘That fella what was shot and burned alive?’

  ‘If he was shot, he wouldn’t be alive, thicko,’ the first lad said.

  ‘Depends where they shot him,’ she snapped back, shoving the boy for good measure.

  ‘It is about the murder,’ Rachel said, ‘and if anyone here knows anything that might help, you can call at the mobile incident unit up the road. In complete confidence,’ she added.

  ‘Not very confidential if everyone can see who’s going in,’ piped up a very small boy with a brutally shaved head. He had a point.

  ‘You can ring in,’ Rachel said.

  ‘You ever shot anyone?’ This from the shrew girl.

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ Rachel said. ‘You’re not armed,’ said the small lad. ‘Only special units carry guns.’

  ‘Now we’d like a word with Mr Kelly …’ Janet said.

  ‘Ooh!’ a voice called out.

  ‘A threesome, eh?’ the shrew girl said.

  A bout of laughter.

  ‘Who’s got the handcuffs?’ More laughter as they spilled out on to the streets.

  Liam Kelly raised his eyebrows, shook his head.

  ‘Your partner,’ Rachel said, ‘she mentioned someone yesterday, hadn’t been round for his food parcel?’

  ‘Rodeo Rick, yeah.’

  ‘Seen him today?’

  ‘No,’ Liam Kelly said.

  ‘Where’s he live?’

  ‘He’s homeless, dosses where he can.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Tall, on the skinny side, long hair.’

  ‘White guy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Hard to say, fifties, sixties.’

  ‘You know his full name?’ Rachel said.

  He shrugged. ‘No. Goes by Rodeo Rick, wears check shirts, an old cowboy hat.’

  Rachel looked at Janet, who nodded her agreement.

  Rachel picked out the best photo from Mrs Kavanagh. ‘Could this be him, when he was younger?’

  Liam Kelly took the picture. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s not …’ He looked at Rachel, his shoulders sagging. ‘You think it’s him?’

  Rachel pulled a face. ‘Sorry, yes. Was he dossing in the chapel?’

  He frowned. ‘Could’ve been. God, I never thought …’ He shook his head. ‘He didn’t say where he stayed, best to be cautious.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, some places, he could be done for trespassing. But he liked to be off the streets, out of sight, come dark. He’d get a bit of aggro, people having a go.’

  ‘How long had he been in the area?’

  ‘Few months. Found him going through the bins before Christmas, told him he’d no need, we’d give him out-of-date stuff.’

  ‘Ever hear of him mixing in bad company?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Never. Kept to himself. He was on the drink. That’s all he could be bothered with. He’d beg now and then if he had to,’ said Liam Kelly.

  ‘Any enemies?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ He shook his head, rubbed at his forehead. ‘Poor old sod.’

  The confirmation of identity represented a significant breakthrough, dental records putting the seal on what already seemed to be the case. Gill called the syndicate together for an update.

  She was about to speak, the room quiet, when Pete leaned over and muttered something to Mitch.

  Gill caught the words, better defence and injury time.

  ‘Do I look like Sir Alex frigging Ferguson?’ she said.

  Pete straightened up, a sick look on his face. ‘No, boss.’

  ‘José Mourinho? Arsène Wenger?’

  ‘No, boss.’

  ‘Then why are you talking football twaddle in my briefing? You in the wrong job, Pete? Want to go try out for the Latics?’

  ‘No, boss.’

  ‘Mitch?’

  ‘No, boss.’

  ‘OK, we have a lot to get through,’ she began, ‘and it doesn’t involve dribbling or fancy footwork. Our victim is Richard Kavanagh, aged sixty, separated from wife Judith in 1997, last seen by her two years later, when she told him not to visit again. Shopkeeper, artist, husband, father in his glory days. Alcoholic, rendered destitute. Known locally as Rodeo Rick on account of his liking for flannel shirts and a leather cowboy hat. He’d been sleeping rough for several months on Manorclough. No one reporting any criminal behaviour, he has a clean sheet and not known to be involved with any illegal activity on the estate. So why does he end up shot and set on fire in the Old Chapel?’

  ‘Mistaken identity?’ suggested Pete.

  ‘Possibly. If so, mistaken by who, for who?’ Gill said. ‘Talk to people, see if we can find out anything more about him, his movements, contacts, any possible enemies. This man so far has no reputation for violence. Test that out. Had he any drinking buddies who can tell us more? Was he known to homeless charities or hostels in the area?’ Nine times out of ten, building a profile of the victim led you to their killer. Usually someone close by. Who’d been close to Richard Kavanagh?

  She turned to the notes on the whiteboard. ‘Two elements we are investigating, firearms and arson. Firearms first. The lab reports the bullets are both from the same gun. The gun was used in 2007 in a post office shooting in Stockport – not a million miles away. Perpetrators were arrested, charged and are currently enjoying Her Majesty’s hospitality at Strangeways. We’ll have a chat with them, see if they’d like to earn some Brownie points by telling us what happened to the weapon. Did they sell it on, give it to someone for safekeeping?’

  She saw Rachel roll her eyes. ‘You’d like to contribute, Rachel?’

  Rachel seemed skittish. Gill knew the young officer had been through the mill in the last few months, but dared to hope that settling down with her bloke would help stabilize her, ground her. When Rachel had turned her brother in, revealing his involvement in the death of sleazeball barrister Nick Savage, Gill had stood up for her. She had sung her praises at the subsequent hearing with the top brass. And she meant every word she said: Rachel was a great asset to the police service, had huge potential and had already done excellent work on a number of major investigations. Gill believed Rachel had nothing to do with any revenge attack on the barrister. She’d shown great self-control in not going after him
when he escaped prosecution for trying to have Rachel herself killed to save his own skin. Corrupt and venal was Nick Savage, and with the connections he had he’d been able to evade the law, while Dominic Bailey felt its long cold grip all too swiftly. But marriage hadn’t mellowed Rachel, she still seemed impatient, volatile. Perhaps she just needed more time to process what had happened.

  ‘Well, it’s not likely, is it?’ Rachel was saying. ‘They’ve taken the fall, banged up, they’re not gonna cough now.’

  ‘So we don’t bother?’ Gill said. ‘We close down that line of inquiry? Take our bat home?’

  ‘I’m not saying that,’ Rachel argued.

  ‘Good,’ Gill said. ‘It is our job to be thorough, to be meticulous, and to go where the evidence takes us, even if that turns out to be a complete waste of time. Yes?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Rachel said, fingers twirling her pen like it was a marching baton.

  ‘Kevin, see about making a prison visit,’ Gill said.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Arson – the same accelerant, petrol, was used in the previous arson attacks at the mosque and the school.’ Gill summarized what they had from the fire investigation officer. ‘What more do we know?’

  ‘No joy so far on the garages,’ Kevin said. ‘Also following up on two incidents of theft from vehicles. Siphoning.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’ Gill said.

  ‘One Royton, one Middleton.’

  ‘Bit risky,’ Janet said, ‘you could be caught by the owner, seen by neighbours.’

  ‘Yes, but you won’t be on CCTV like you would if it was station forecourt,’ said Kevin.

  ‘Good point,’ Gill told him and almost wished she hadn’t when he started to preen. She indicated the boards. ‘And the Perry twins?’

  ‘They attended an EBA, Bulldog Army, meeting earlier in the month,’ Lee checked his notebook, ‘at the George Inn on Sunday.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gill said, ‘where talk was heard about “sending a message”.’ She wiggled quote marks with her fingers.

  ‘We know this how?’ Janet said.

  Gill smiled, raised an eyebrow. ‘I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.’ Intelligence from infiltrators was a double-edged sword. You couldn’t reveal a source without jeopardizing an ongoing investigation and risking an informant’s safety. Sometimes that informant would be a CI, a community informant, someone willing to risk spying on friends and neighbours for a regular few quid to help get by. The other informants were officers in deep cover. Gill couldn’t think of anything worse than pretending to be a lowlife or a fascist or a fanatic. And sometimes infiltration went horribly wrong, with officers going rogue or crossing the murky lines into deeply unethical territory, as had happened with those policemen who’d infiltrated various protest movements, sleeping with the activists, fathering children. Disastrous.